


Missing

by thingswithwings



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Biting, Community: kink_bingo, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-18
Updated: 2009-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-23 23:59:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/256550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingswithwings/pseuds/thingswithwings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike's first instinct is to keep to the shadows, hide and observe like he used to in the old days; his second instinct is to get the hell out of there, good riddance and goodbye to all that.  Spike hasn't often in his life waited around long enough for his third instinct to kick in, but he does this time, ambling up behind Harris and speaking into his ear – his left ear – as he fumbles his change towards his pocket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Missing

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains kinks for biting, body alteration (in the sense of fetishizing a site of previous amputation), and violence/rough sex, but it's nothing too graphic.
> 
> A kink_bingo prize for lit_gal.

Spike turns a corner in Köln and isn't surprised to see Xander Harris standing at a little storefront food vendor, leaning forward and reaching up to accept a paper tray of sausage and mustard. Spike's first instinct is to keep to the shadows, hide and observe like he used to in the old days; his second instinct is to get the hell out of there, good riddance and goodbye to all that. Spike hasn't often in his life waited around long enough for his third instinct to kick in, but he does this time, ambling up behind Harris and speaking into his ear – his left ear – as he fumbles his change towards his pocket.

"Got change for a tenner?" Spike asks. Harris cranes his neck to glance at him disinterestedly and then does a satisfying double-take, his mouth slipping open in surprise.

"Spike! Don't tell me you're reduced to panhandling tourists for money these days," he says, but it's an empty barb, a space-filler. Xander never learned how not to talk; it's what Spike's always liked most about him.

"And you've developed a predilection for German sausage, I see," Spike returns. It's not funny, and neither of them is laughing, but it's necessary for them to open this way. Spike delivers his line half-heartedly, sighing, glancing up into the cool northern dusk as if more interested in the twilight glow of the city than the chance meeting of two old . . . well. Two old enemies, Spike supposes.

Xander blinks his one eye. There's a faint red line where his eyepatch touches his cheek: irritation from the leather rubbing against his skin all day, every day.

For what feels like a long time, neither of them speaks, just standing and waiting for something to happen. Eventually, Harris tosses his paper tray into a nearby trash can.

"Let me buy you a drink," Xander Harris says. His voice nearly breaks.

"Yeah, alright," Spike agrees.

There's a beer garden selling kölsch every ten feet, but Xander walks right past them, leading them somewhere else. Spike walks slightly behind him, watching his middle-aged amble along cobblestone streets, watching the way he favours one knee and the flash of grey in his hair that shines against the streetlights. Kid's maybe in his mid-thirties, but that has nothing to do with the age he carries now.

They leave all the cobblestone behind and walk into a newer part of the city that Spike doesn't know.

"There a lot of good pubs round here, then?" Spike asks, walking on Xander's left.

Xander shrugs. "I'm staying near here." He turns his head to look at Spike and holds his gaze, just for a second.

That's all the invitation Spike needs. It doesn't take much strength to push a knee between Xander's thighs and shove him up against the dark alley wall. That feels good, that acquiescence, Xander's pliancy, so Spike runs a hand up his neck (he turns his head away from the touch) and into his hair (he inhales suddenly) and makes a fist, gripping him by the hair and pulling his head back, hard. Baring his throat.

"Really?" Xander asks. He sounds distanced, ironic, but his breath is coming in short little gasps. "The whole 'I'm a vampire, biting people is sexy' thing? Isn't that a little passé?"

As if unconnected to the part of him that makes sarcastic quips, Xander's body shudders and heaves, pushing at Spike, struggling within his grasp. He's bigger than he used to be, stronger and heavier. Spike tightens his fist and yanks back a little further.

There's a kind that's queer for getting bit; Buffy always surrounded herself with them, Angel and Riley and Willow and Faith. And Xander. Of course.

Spike uses his free hand to undo the button and zip on Xander's trousers, then slips his hand inside, easy as old times, to grip his cock. He starts to stroke, not too fast, not loose enough to be entirely comfortable.

Xander groans and bucks again, gets one big hand on Spike's neck and pulls him in by force to kiss him, lick him, astonishingly gentle. Spike indulges him and kisses back. The eyepatch scrapes and soothes against Spike's skin. He wants under it, suddenly, inside it to the hole where Xander used to be.

They stop kissing after a while, but Spike keeps moving his hand in the slow, tight rhythm he's begun. "Do you remember, I wonder," he asks, hearing his accent slipping to posh, "when Angel offered you to me for a – midnight – snack – "

Two last hard pulls and Xander's coming into his hand, so hot, still so young after all. Then the hand on Spike's neck slides forward to grip at his shoulder, hard, pinching, heavy. Xander presses down and Spike lets himself be forced to his knees in a cold alleyway in Köln, twenty years and six thousand miles since the last time he brought Xander off with his mouth, his hands, his cock. His teeth.

Xander's dick is soft and wet, but that's not what he's offering. Wordlessly, he holds his arm out at the waist, forms a fist and juts it toward Spike's mouth, vaguely obscene. Spike trails his fingers up the sinews, the corded workman's muscles that stand out on his forearm. He bends his head and lowers his mouth to the hot skin beneath his hands and Xander trembles, only a little, when Spike bites down and sucks.

As his teeth open another hole in Xander's body, as the warm taste of blood rushes into his mouth, Spike looks up, grateful, and sees Xander looking down at him strange and one-eyed, mouth open, old and grateful too.

-

His first instinct is to grab it, tear it off, throw it to the floor; his second is to just fuck Xander from behind so that he doesn't have to look at it. Spike waits again for his third instinct, and follows it.

"Take it off," he rasps. His hands are under Xander's shirt and Xander is pushing at Spike's jeans, but he doesn't mean those, doesn't care about those, can't stand looking at the patch for another single second.

"A guy can only get naked so fast – "

"No," Spike says, cutting off the quick, wry tone of Xander's deflection. "The eyepatch. Take it off."

Harris freezes for a second, then shoves him away, keeps him at arm's length. In the dim light of the cheap hotel room, Spike can't see his expression, can only see the sharp-relief lines etched into his face: beside his eye, at the downturn of his mouth.

"What the fuck," he pants, temporizing, filling the space between them until he can think of something else to say. "What the _fuck_ – "

Spike weaves slowly past Xander's arm and back into his space, kisses his neck and behind his ear softly, softly, the way they never used to but the way they could if they wanted to, now, softly.

"Take it off," he mutters against Xander's skin. He can't help the little teasing, competitive edge in his voice. "When's the last time you – "

This time Xander interrupts him, tilts his chin up gently and bends his head a little to kiss him, and this isn't soft but hard and rough and sudden: Xander's tongue on his teeth, his tongue, his lips, Xander's mouth as hot and familiar to Spike as his blood, his suspicion, his disdain, his emptiness. Spike grips at Xander's neck while they kiss, almost massaging, almost pinching, holding him still. Xander's hands are all over him, shoving his jeans to his ankles, palms rubbing hard over Spike's ribs, fingernails scraping at his nipples, everywhere at once.

"C'mon," Spike manages, between kisses, "c'mon, c'mon, over here." He walks them back to the bed, cajoling even though Xander is the one who's all passion and fury, the one eating him alive.

They manage to get most of their clothes off, but Xander is still tangled up in the sleeves of his open white shirt when Spike pushes him down to the bed and pins his wrists. It takes a little more effort than when Xander was fifteen, but back then Spike cared more about not hurting him, so he lets himself exert his full strength, carelessly, against Xander's heavy body where it struggles underneath him.

Then all the fight goes out of him, all in a rush. He lies beneath Spike and his one eye flutters closed. His voice, when he speaks, is choked.

"You do it," he says, fast like he's just trying to get to the other side of the words, "you take it off, do it, you do it."

Spike transfers Xander's wrists to one hand, then slips his fingers under the warm brown leather and splays them, under the patch and over the eye socket. Xander opens his eye and watches. The skin around the edges feels normal, hot human skin, but when he dips his fingers a little deeper Xander flinches, a useless instinct for protecting something that isn't there anymore. Spike flips his fingers up, flicking the patch up and off and then pulling it out of Xander's hair and tossing it away. It looks like other missing eyes that Spike's seen in his life, messed up and torn and empty. There's still most of the eyelid left.

Spike settles in a little more, getting his knees on either side of Xander's hips so he can press his cock against Xander's inner thigh, against the fast-pulsing artery buried in his leg. Xander thrusts up a little, his dick nudging wetly against Spike's belly, and then Spike bends forward to kiss the hollow spot between Xander's collarbones while his hand strokes Xander's face: jaw, then cheekbone, and Xander gasps and arches his neck when finally, finally, Spike fits his thumb into the eye socket, resting against the eyelid, stroking just a little.

Xander thrusts up against him again and Spike is sure for a second he's going to come, so he gives him just a little more pressure, just a little more motion with his thumb pressing down, just the little bit of pressure he needs to get off. But Xander cries out and his hips jerk erratically and he pushes out of Spike's grip, grabbing Spike by the forearms and flipping him over, reversing their positions. Spike pushes back against Xander's grip, just out of curiosity, and Xander shoves him a little harder – yes – and flips him with one hand on his forearm and the other finding the back of Spike's neck. Suddenly he's face down on the bed, and really he should've known this was coming.

"You're so – " Spike grunts as Xander's knee pushes his thighs apart, then spreads his legs in mute cooperation – "predictable – "

"Shut up, Spike," Xander says. His voice doesn't have any venom in it, just weariness. He rests his forehead against the nape of Spike's neck. He breathes hot and fast against Spike's back. After a long moment of waiting Spike wriggles a little, trying to brush his ass or the backs of his thighs against Xander's cock.

"Bloody fucking hell," he says, "are you fucking me or what?"

He surprises himself by surprising a laugh out of Xander, a soft thing that's just a little too low for a giggle. It makes him sound like a kid again. The tension drains out of Spike, then, and he relaxes into the bed and into Xander's hands on him and he grins into the sheets, suddenly.

"Sure, Spike," Xander says, and Spike can hear him smiling a little as he fingers into Spike's ass. It's nice, warm pressure for just a moment before it's replaced by the head of Xander's cock, slick and hot, nudging against his asshole.

"You want anything?" Xander asks.

"No," Spike says, because he doesn't. Xander spits on his hand anyway and rubs it against Spike's hole, but doesn't really bother with it much, just enough to keep it from chafing too badly. Then he's fucking into Spike, hot length filling him up slowly, too slowly. Xander takes his hand from the back of Spike's neck and shifts it restlessly along Spike's body, rubbing over his sides, the small of his back, coming down to hold Spike open while his other hand guides his cock into him.

"I know. You can go. Faster than that," Spike manages, panting uselessly. He tries to get a hand under himself to his cock.

Xander slides in another inch and his hand grips Spike's ass, kneading desperately as if to distract himself from the other sensations. "Your ass is really _tight_ ," he says, the same way he might say that a building was really tall or a horde of uber-vampires was really hordey. Spike surprises himself by being surprised into a laugh. He arches back and shifts his legs against Xander's, indulging that feel of skin on skin. He finally gets a hand on his own cock.

"I've been – saving myself – for you, baby," he says, still laughing a little. Xander laughs with him and fucks into him all the way, fucks him hard and pulls back and fucks him again, and now they've got it, a rhythm: Spike pushes back to meet him and Xander shoves forward into him and it's just perfect, just right. Spike tightens his hand around his cock, but the angle is a little weird, so it's hard to get much motion.

"Get up, uh, on your arms," Xander says, and Spike does, moving to his hands and knees with Xander still hot and thick inside him, still splitting him open and filling him up. As they move, his dick nudges Spike's prostate and the little wave that shudders through him is unexpected and perfect. Then Xander gets his hand on Spike's dick, all rough calluses and big fingers – he always did have big hands – and starts to pull, roughly, efficiently.

"I forgot how cold you were inside," Xander whispers, hotly, like a confession. He buries his forehead between Spike's shoulderblades and fucks him harder, faster, while Spike spreads his legs a little further and pushes back to meet his strokes, moving with him, and when he comes it's almost as an afterthought because the whole thing feels so good, getting fucked and getting jerked off and after he comes it keeps on feeling good, Xander fucking him and gripping his cock.

"Ahhhh," Xander says, a weird little sigh as he manages a last few sloppy thrusts and then holds himself tight against Spike's body while he comes.

After Xander pulls out and rolls off of him, Spike says, wearily, fondly, "I forgot how stupid you sound when you come."

-

They both get dressed again in silence. Spike picks the eyepatch up off the floor and holds it out to Xander, who's still doing up the buttons on his shirt. Xander looks at it for a second, then steps forward, into Spike's space.

"You do it," he says again.

Spike stretches the elastic strap around Xander's head, but doesn't flip the patch down over the eye socket. Xander doesn't move, doesn't flinch as Spike presses his thumb into that empty space again, just presses in and strokes a little, fingers ghosting over the damaged skin.

"Yeah," Xander says, eventually, as if Spike asked him a question. Spike takes his thumb away, then carefully pulls the patch down to cover over the empty space between them.

Spike gets his feet in his boots and pulls his coat on.

"See you round, Harris," he says.

"See ya," Xander says back.


End file.
